


leave me in the sun like an offering

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands hold Sam like he’s a delicate creation, bits of bone and grass and not meant to last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave me in the sun like an offering

There was a big old oak tree that overhung the wide river running through the backwoods behind the farm fields. It’s gnarled roots hung over the gently sloping bank, twisted and thick. They were good sturdy roots for young boys to sit on and dangle their feet in the water. It was their spot. Sam and Dean. This was the tree they came back to time and again. Where they climbed and pretended it was a castle tower. Where they dug to hide what treasures small boys have. Where they swam in the summer and watched the last of the snow melt in the spring.

When Dean was still small enough to come out to the tree with Sam, and big enough he had the muscle for it, they had set up a tire on a rope there. To hang over the river lazily, or swing and dive in. Sam’s best memories were sunny afternoons with his feet swinging off the tire swing laughing at his brother trying to do flips off the roots into the river.

But Dean stopped going to the old tree with him. His senior year, he’d dropped out of high school to work more around the failing family farm. Sam put in his work too, but he was focused on school. Intent on getting out of this poor dying town where half the store fronts on main street sat empty.

When he needed somewhere to escape, he took his books to the old oak tree. He was too old for the games of make believe they used to play there. But the slope of the trunk and the cradle of the trees roots were a familiar comfort to Sam. He never thought he’d share the tree with anyone, but then he met Cas.

Castiel. A wild boy. Sam met him at the tree on a sweltering summer day when the sky was clear and the air was dry. It was an ideal day for a swim, but Sam usually sat and read at the tree anymore. There was someone else in the river though, when he got there. Naked in the clear slow running water that was only chest high. Dark hair slicked back and blue eyes wide, his skin was tanned by the sun and his slender body twisted around to look at Sam.

His clothes were on the opposite bank, rumpled and forgotten. Sam looked away. There were still people who got upset at boys who liked other boys that way. But Cas didn’t seem to mind. Sam thought it was strange at first. He learned quickly that Cas was a very strange boy.

They met at the tree when the sun was at it’s highest point every day that summer and spent their afternoons wandering the overgrown fields and woods. Cas had just moved with his family to the trailer park across the ravine. It was strewn with junk there, old broken things people had tossed away. Cas liked to pick through the wreckage.

He had nimble hands. Sam would watch him as he wove flowers and sticks, scrap metals and torn cloth, even bleached animal bones they found by the river bed. Cas made things. Little sculptures. Abstract ideas of his fingers busy-ness as they plucked and picked and created. Cas always left them behind. They’d sit at the tree and he’d weave his creations together and leave them perched on the roots.

Sometimes, Sam returned to the tree alone so he could take them home.

It would seem odd to ask Cas for them. But Sam saved them, and kept them lined on the top of his shelf in his bedroom hidden behind a row of books. The flowers wilted, and sometimes they fell apart, fragile things that weren’t really meant to last. Sam cherished them, still.

He never thought Cas would want to touch him with those hands, not how Sam craved.

The first time Cas cradled his face in those warm gentle hands, high grass tickling his knees and a breeze ruffling his hair, Sam thought he’d fall off the earth if it wasn’t for the steadiness of Cas’ hands holding him up.

Sam’s favorite thing to do, now, is hide under the roots of the tree away from the world, with the soft lapping of the river’s water at their feet, and kiss Cas. His hands hold Sam like he’s a delicate creation, bits of bone and grass and not meant to last. Long fingers weave through his hair and trace the knobs of his spine. Those narrow palms fit into the crook of his hips and shyly slide up his quivering stomach. Cas is a wild boy, but reverent and tender. Like gently rippling grass in a breeze or the lazy steady current of the river.

Sam wants those hands to make something new out of him, and leave him in the sun like an offering.


End file.
